


Functions and Former Selves

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Pilot [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Kylo normally manages his memories.





	Functions and Former Selves

Sometimes, it’s the oddest things that bring back memories. Kylo thought he had banished all the ones from this room.

Instead of a _Leader_ , he was an _Emperor_. Like Palpatine, and Vader, combined into one. He had the political understanding, and control over the Force. His Empire was different: forged from the slag melted from the Order, beaten and burnished into something stronger, brighter, more stable…

He’d thought this room, on a ship the old Leader had never boarded, would be distant enough. High-vaulted, but the throne was nothing like Snoke’s had been. The echoes of architecture and interior design had been there, but the sound had dimmed with the passage of time. The white-or-silver soldiers became echoes back to something _before_ , and little by little the cold, spindly, cruel hands left him in peace.

Mostly.

Today, it’s none of those things. He’s caught by surprise in the middle of a function. He rules as fairly as he can, and it isn’t all sheer military force. Some of it is the firm reminder you have a loaded fist, and the silk you drape over it.

Leaders from worlds who swore allegiance early, or whose co-operation was coerced for the sake of strategic advantage or resources. It’s important to give these provincial governors some recognition: their loyalty increases, and the others see the boons of behaving, and fall more easily in line. 

It’s all going swimmingly until he sees a young child - he can’t even tell what gender the small thing is - pulled along by its parent, forced to bow and say a few words, before vanishing into the crowds.

And just like that, he remembers.

He remembers endless functions, and parties, and wedding ceremonies. Distant ‘friends’ of the family, and the starchy clothing and best behaviour. Being expected to speak politely to all the adults, and being both bored witless and utterly distressed at the loneliness. 

He remembers sneaking platefuls of food under trestle tables, watching the shoes walk past, making up his own stories about the person wearing them. Hiding there, or near the sound and lights, trying to avoid all contact.

Trying to ignore… ignore the subtle whispers in his head. Trying to ignore the way the shadows lengthened under the table. The way he was sure every set of eyes _judged_ him when he was where they could see. Trying to ignore the quiet urge to grab the disposable cutlery and jam it right into–

“My Emperor,” Poe’s voice rings out, as the pilot-commander bows only half-low. “May I consult on a matter of military urgency?”  


Kylo nods. “Have a room cleared.”

***

They can’t be gone long. People will talk. People will _already_ be talking. No doubt they’ll think the Emperor and his pilot are off enjoying one another quickly in a closet, which - to be fair - has both been the case in the past, and would not displease him if it _did_ become the scuttlebutt again.

In a room, closed, sealed, locked away. The adult equivalent of a table, overhanging with a cloth, keeping everyone else at bay.

“You looked pale,” Poe says, one hand on his, the other stroking his cheek.   


“It was… it was just that child reminded me, is all.”  


Reminded him of the agony, the clawing, gnawing pain. The knives stuck deep in, the way his whole galaxy had narrowed down to–

The hand on his cheek moves to curl around the back of his neck, tugging him firmly, but kindly, down. 

Kylo lets him, and he closes his eyes as their foreheads meet. The hand keeps hold, a thumb rolling over the pulsepoint in his neck. The other grips his hand tighter, giving him physical points of contact, of grounding.

“We can end the party early,” Poe suggests. “Or leave it with your diplomats.”  


“We can’t be seen to be weak… I will stay until it’s polite to leave, and then the delegates will feel able to leave, also.” They wouldn’t dare leave Kylo’s hospitality before he’d signalled it was okay to do so.   


“You’re sure?”  


“Yes. It’s… it’s what needs to happen.”  


“Your comfort is more important than a few governors.”  


“Perhaps, but the Empire is more important than a minor… moment of… displeasure.” It’s more than that, but it’s also… he knows it’s minor. A flicker, a flash of memory. An echo, like the ache in cold weather at the knitted bones under his flesh.   


“Is there anything I can do to help?”  


“You could…” Oh. “You could seek out the small child? I think… if I knew they’d had someone acknowledge them, and offer them company… I think I’d feel better.” Feel like he wasn’t as much of an asshole as those who came before.  


“I can do! Can you point him - or her - out to me?”  


Kylo nods. “I will.”

“I’ll also check in with you, whenever I can. If you need another ‘consult’, or just pulling away from the crowds…?”  


His wonderful, wonderful partner. He feels better already, for having this: this safety net, this… show that his happiness _matters_. That it’s _possible_. Knowing the cycle won’t repeat, even in the smallest way, if Poe gets his hands on the child. It helps a lot. 

But the biggest thing… it’s noticing what made his mood dip, understanding it. Not being battered and swayed by unchecked, unconscious reactions… realising there’s a definitive cause… it’s helping.

A lot.


End file.
